


Relapse and Recovery

by AngeliaDark



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Abuse, Alastor has a heart, Comfort, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, M/M, Recovery, Relapse, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Supportive partner, sexless relationship, support system
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22362268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeliaDark/pseuds/AngeliaDark
Summary: Going clean was never going to be easy, but easy was something Angel Dust never expected going into this anyway.  At least he has a good support system to help him along the way.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 433





	Relapse and Recovery

_"Recovery is a process, Angel."_

Angel Dust rubbed between his eyes, trying to fight through the particular brand of exhaustion that came from a hangover he was all too familiar with as he trudged his way toward the Happy Hotel.

The Walk of Shame. 

Shame he used to take pride in.

_"We're going to expect a few mishaps, it happens!"_

Shame. Pride. Fancy words, too highbrow for the pit he was wallowing in right now. 

He couldn't even make an excuse. There was none. No 'I don't recall what happened', no 'I was tricked into it', none of that bullshit. It was his OWN bullshit.

_"I know your job makes it harder, but if you ever need an out, you can just tell us."_

He KNEW his job made it damn near impossible. But he didn't tell. He didn't call when he felt the last thread of self-control fraying. He didn't say no.

No, he just smiled and laughed and took a line of coke with a vodka chaser. He didn't care about recovery. He didn't care about image. He didn't care he didn't care he didn't care he didn't care

Until he woke up with a pounding headache. His body aching all over. Sweat and semen tacking at his fur. His underwear was nowhere to be seen.

And he didn't even get paid for it.

_"You know we're here for you."_

Angel kept his phone in his pocket, leaving the texts on 'READ', the voicemails unchecked, the calls ignored. He knew, goddamn it. He knew already. It was on display for everyone in Hell to see as he walked down the street, leaving catcalls unanswered as the Hotel came into view. He was reminded so damn hard of coming home from school in trouble, seeing his father waiting for him, knowing he was going to get the ass-whipping of a lifetime. 

At this point, he'd take his father's belt over the looks of disappointment he was about to get. 

_'Hey God,'_ he mentally prayed, _'I know I ain't got no business askin', but could ya throw me a bone an' just have everyone NOT be there when I get in? Please and thanks.'_

He gripped the door handle and opened it.

Everyone was in the lobby looking concerned.

Fuck you, God.

"Angel!" Charlie cried, hurrying over. "Are you okay?! You didn't answer your phone and Cherri didn't know where you were, and -"

"Leave me alone."

Angel's dead tone and trek on past her cut her off, keeping his eyes forward as he made his way up the stairs. He could hear Charlie shuffling behind him.

"...do you need anything? I can get Al -"

"Leave me ALONE." Angel HATED how his voice broke at the end, fighting like crazy to keep his composure, to keep his tears in the ducts, his screams in his throat, his bile in his gullet as he walked up the stairs. Eyes forward. Objective: bathroom. Wash the sin away. Wash the shame away.

_'Right, you fight NOW, you couldn't fight this hard when they were shoving cocaine in your direction.'_

Shut up.

Angel walked into his room, shutting and locking the door behind him before tugging his clothes off, letting the pieces drop one by one on the floor, another piece of armor fading to leave his body on display for God, Satan, Fate herself, that fucking bitch, to see what an absolute failure he was.

He walked into the bathroom to assess the damage. He already knew he'd be needing a deep cleaning just from the feel of his fur, but it was worth it not to have to get back in the shower all over again because he used the wrong cleaner or missed a spot.

_'Just throw the whole damn body away, it would be easier.'_

Shut up.

But that stupid voice wasn't wrong. He was a mess. Eyeliner and mascara were unflatteringly smudged. Hair a hot mess. Some blood among the semen stains splattered even where he HAD been wearing clothes. His crotch and thighs felt absolutely filthy.

And to think, he thought, this used to be a good time.

_'This is your good time? You sex doll. Walking fleshlight. Fuckpuppet. Whore.'_

Shut up.

_'You can't even keep your legs closed for HIS sake.'_

"SHUT UP!"

Angel slammed his fist into the mirror, webs of cracks spreading over the whole thing. He could still see his reflection, his disgusting, filthy image, as he continued to drive his fist into the glass again and again. "SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP _SHUT UP_ -!"

A hand grabbing his bloody wrist had him jerking back in shock, almost falling into the pile of broken mirror on the floor if not for the firm grip as he looked up and saw Alastor standing beside him, preventing him from punching the remainder of the mirror. Angel's breath constricted in his chest, pulling at his wrist.

"Let go!"

"Angel -"

"LET GO!" Angel tugged harder, almost hyperventilating. "Don't TOUCH me!"

"Angel, that's enough."

"DON'T TOUCH ME, DON'T TOUCH ME, AL, I'M FILTHY!" Angel's legs buckled, almost sending him to the floor with the glass if not for Alastor's other arm reaching out to keep him scooped upright. "I'm fuckin' FILTHY!"

"Yes, I can see the blood," Alastor replied, unperturbed. "Nothing I haven't touched before." He calmly kept Angel upright, easing him out of the bathroom and away from all the glass. 

Angel jerked in his hold, his earlier adrenaline quickly fading as numb despair began to set in. "Don't fuckin' patronize me, you fucker!" he wailed, still trying to get away. "Fuckin' LOOK at me! Jus' LOOK at me!"

"I am," Alastor said, stepping back into a black blur of shadows and into his own room with Angel still in his hold. Angel swayed hard at the sudden shadow trip and was set down on an ottoman before he collapsed. A snap of his fingers had his coat removed and sleeves rolled up as he began quietly plucking the larger pieces of glass out of Angel's hand.

Angel's body shook hard, far from being in pain by this point and all emotional and mental overload not knowing what to do or where to go. He couldn't bring him self to look at Alastor, rubbing an uninjured fist over his eyes and smearing his makeup even further without a damn.

Once the large pieces were taken care of, Alastor hummed a soft tune as he waved his fingers over the lacerations, using his magic to draw out the minuscule shards that he couldn't reach and displace them into nothingness. He raised his hand to bite into his thumb to draw blood, running it over Angel's wounds to have thread-thin black tendrils seal the cuts closed. Angel's shoulders were shaking with silent sobs by this point, the spider unable and unwilling to look up or move or do anything but cry.

Alastor snapped his fingers, hearing hot water being drawn in his bathroom as he lifted the now-limp Angel up and half-carried him into the bathroom to set him down in the tub. The spider was too far gone in his own self-loathing to protest as Alastor grabbed a washcloth and soap and began scrubbing.

It was something that came naturally to Alastor, the deer thought, caring for someone like this. Not that he’d ever admit it to ANYONE. He could scarcely remember decades and decades ago, alive, still a boy as he cared for his ailing mother as her health deteriorated. They were poor folk, no means to have in-depth medical care, and Alastor was not yet proficient in anything substantial at the time to help her. All he could do was be her caretaker until she simply stopped living.

When dear Charlie accepted his help in running a rehabilitation center, he had no way of knowing that his skills would be put to use again, and for Angel Dust of all people. He even wondered why the spider was even here for some time, thinking that he’d found someone else in it for the free entertainment of it all before a ‘therapy session’ with Charlie had it all come to light.

_ “I ain’t lookin’ for redemption!” _ Angel had finally broken down and admitted.  _ “I just don’t wanna be THIS anymore!” _

‘This’ referring to being so drugged out he didn’t know what day it was or remember the number of arms he had. Of being nothing but a sex toy for others to use and throw away. Of not even knowing who he really was anymore.

To Charlie’s credit, the princess didn’t seem downtrodden of Angel’s lack of faith in the whole ‘redemption’ thing, but rather embraced Angel’s needs with open arms and swapped his therapy out from a sinner’s redemption to drug rehabilitation.

It was Angel’s complete earnesty to really WANT to change that made Alastor pay attention and show some genuine interest in how THIS particular case would go. Withdraw symptoms aside, Angel Dust was definitely more subdued. Quieter. Didn’t like to be the center of attention, like he was realizing just how vulnerable he really was when he wasn’t on the razor’s edge of a high. He busied his hands with new things whenever he got ancy from withdraw, taking up knitting, cooking for everyone in the Hotel for hours on end.

And cleaning. 

As much as Niffty appreciated someone else who now had her standards, when Angel Dust hit a certain mood, he cleaned. All eight eyes would pinpoint a hint of filth and scrub it with a fervor that was almost frightening. If a stain wouldn’t come out, he would break down sobbing until the mood passed.

Alastor watched, noticing that those cleaning moods almost always came after a slight relapse. A small baggie of drugs that hadn’t been confiscated. A drink that he snuck. 

It was after Alastor caught him submitting to a client behind the Hotel that the cleaning mood turned on himself, and the spider saw fit to literally hose himself down with the garden hose before feeling ‘clean’ enough to go back into the Hotel for a more thorough shower.

Upon telling this to Charlie, she just nodded sadly. “Recovery is a process,” were her words, to him and to Angel Dust. The spider had been doing this since before he died, and had a long road to go before sobriety became the new norm.

Alastor, for one, actually found himself welcoming that time. Angel Dust had a quick wit when it wasn’t deadened by drugs or alcohol. He appreciated oldschool humor, had similar musical tastes as Alastor, and the two actually bonded over cooking, sharing a deeply-held belief that store-bought was the REAL evil.

Their debate over herbs versus spices was still up in the air.

It was that tentative dip into what Alastor could somewhat consider a friendship, camaraderie founded on a strong foundation that Alastor held dear even from life, that led him to take the lead in dealing with the messier parts of Angel’s recovery. 

Holding down the fort from violent mood swings. Picking Angel up from a hidden area somewhere in the city when he’d gotten his hands on some drugs or the other and had an anxiety attack from the guilt. Keeping Angel’s head from following the vomit into the toilet after a bad drinking binge. 

The first time he pulled Angel into the bathtub was after a week solid of Angel being unable to get out of bed from depression. It hit Alastor far too close to home, seeing the painfully thin, weak, fragile body in bed, unable to do anything except wait to keel over and simply cease to exist. Alastor was almost on auto pilot as he rolled up his sleeves, carried Angel into the bathroom, and bathed him clean.

It was like magic, being clean for the spider, and Angel was able to eat something and get back up the next day just to do something to pick up where he left off.

And here he was again, though Angel was in a worse state. Angel hit all three pain points of his recovery relapse, and even with a clean body the next few days of detox were going to be hell with Angel riddled with guilt, depression, self-loathing, and possibly another raging fit that would probably turn the entire room he was in to splinters.

“...’m sorry…”

Angel’s cracking voice brought Alastor out of his musings, seeing the spider’s tears streaming down his face in shame. Alastor reached up with the cloth, carefully working around the smaller eyes to get the spoiled makeup off.

“It’s a part of the process,” Alastor said sensibly. 

“I’m weak.”

“So we build up your willpower over time.”

“I’m disgusting.”

“You’ll be clean soon enough.”

“I’m just gonna relapse again.”

“Perhaps,” Alastor conceded. “But are you going to give up?”

Angel was silent as Alastor scrubbed through his hair and rinsed it out, mulling over the answer.

“...I don’t wanna, no.”

Alastor beamed. “Then let’s work with that.” He held up a big fluffy towel. “Can you get out on your own?”

Angel gripped the edges of the bathtub with four of his six hands, taking a deep breath before forcing himself upright on shaking legs and letting Alastor wrap the towel around him. Alastor had to help him out of the tub, but he stood up on his own. 

A tiny victory, he and Alastor both thought as the Radio Demon carried Angel out of the bathroom doorway and through more shadow-walk into Angel’s bedroom, setting the spider down on the bed. “Do you want the radio on?” Alastor asked.

“Please,” Angel replied, letting Alastor shift through stations until he hit the old school slow jazz. Quiet enough for relaxing, but just enough pep to keep a tepid mood. 

“I’ll do the check-in with Charlie,” Alastor said, snapping his fingers and reforming his coat around himself. “We’ll start with forty-eight hour watch and go from there.  _ Bien _ ?”

“ _ Inteso _ ,” Angel replied tiredly, not looking forward to that at all. But he was clean to begin with, if even on the outside. 

He’d hit rock bottom, true. But whether he used the rope Alastor tossed him to climb out or hang himself...he’d figure that out tomorrow.


End file.
